Archive of Our Own

John’s on his way. I hope you appreciate this. – MH

How close is he? – SH

His plane just took off. He’ll be there in about four hours. – MH

Not soon enough. The Moscow police force is even more inept than London’s. This is taking far longer than it should under your watch. – SH

A simple thank you might suffice, little brother. – MH

A thank you? I’m only here as a favour to you! – SH

And now John is as well. You’re welcome. Do try to keep your hands off each other until you’ve solved it. – MH

Hilarious as always. I’ll be expecting thanks from you once we’ve finished this. – SH

Then you’d better get on with it. Keep me appraised of all developments. – MH

Fine. – SH

Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket and swept into the police station, intending to do nothing of the kind.

Everything about this case was grating on his nerves as it was, even without Mycroft breathing down his neck about every little thing. Sherlock knew his brother was just as unhappy as he was that he’d needed to call him in for such a dangerous and inconvenient situation, but even that wasn’t enough to alleviate his frustration. Mycroft’s irritation only amplified Sherlock’s, and gave him a rather unreceptive target to lash out at. Sherlock would not soon forgive his brother for dragging him into such a mess, and in Moscow of all places.

Sherlock didn’t travel for cases. London was where he thrived, where he was comfortable, all its eclectic energy and familiarity combining beautifully into the only place he’d ever called home. Mycroft knew this, and years of fruitless entreaties for Sherlock to go out and do legwork in other parts of the world should have prevented him from pressing the issue on this occasion. But then came a series of murders of members of a powerful family known to be associated with the Russian Mafia – murders so clean and efficient, leaving so little evidence that Mycroft’s usual pawns were found to be instantly out of their depths. So he had, very grudgingly, called in possibly the only man he knew capable of such a job, and certainly the only one he trusted – his little brother.

Sherlock had protested vehemently from the start, his adamant refusal leading to a one of the biggest rows 221B had ever seen. But Mycroft persisted, and eventually overruled him by citing the many favours he’d done for Sherlock over the years and claiming it was high time Sherlock did one for him. To his credit, he’d softened the blow with a promise that it would only take a couple days at most, as well as a substantial monetary compensation that even Sherlock couldn’t dismiss But the row had recommenced with even more fervour, and took even longer to resolve, when Mycroft had insisted that John stay behind.

A part of Sherlock knew that his anger at his brother was misplaced; even a man as powerful as Mycroft Holmes couldn’t dissolve Russia’s intolerant laws, at least not in the necessary time frame. Sherlock knew that even two men as clever and carefully deceptive as he and John would be taking a risk by coming here together. And yet Mycroft’s cool, immovable insistence in the face of his and John’s vitriolic protests had set his teeth on edge even as Sherlock had grudgingly accepted the case, under his brother’s repeated assurance that he would only need to be away for a couple days. But as the targeted Russian family unexpectedly went underground en masse, making the murders exponentially more difficult to follow, and “a couple days” stretched on to a couple weeks, Sherlock’s resentment grew deeper and more irrational, his temper becoming shorter and shorter at every stiff interaction with his brother.

Just to be in this freezing, lifeless hellhole of a city, which had even less London-esque vitality than Sherlock had dared hope, was bad enough. To be here without John was intolerable. They hadn’t been separated so long in all the time they’d been together – properly together – and Sherlock had been missing him so much he could hardly bear it. Any satisfaction that he might have gleaned from deducing the hiding places of gangsters using little more than layers of dust on door hinges was immediately snuffed when he would instinctively turn around to share his brilliance with John and find only the DI’s stone-faced stare. The endless hours on increasingly dreary crime scenes were filled only with stiff questions from mind-numbingly stupid officers, and Sherlock often thought that he would give up any number of secret boltholes and missing corpses just to hear one word in John’s familiar, comforting voice.

The nights were the worst. Sherlock could have maybe endured the wild goose chase, alone, across the dismal underbelly of an unfamiliar city, if only he didn’t have to return to an empty hotel room afterwards. The room itself was nice enough – the result of Mycroft’s placating efforts – but the lack of John in it made the unassuming grey walls and the pleasantly average artwork feel dreary and unforgiving. The luxury of a private space in which to work and rest felt instead like a dark cavern, without even the barest sign of life to comfort him in his solitude. He dreaded nightfall, when, after a few grudging bites of sub-par room service and a chilly telephone briefing with Mycroft, Sherlock had nothing to do but crawl beneath the sheets and try to block out the silence until morning, feeling unreasonably cold and anxious in the far too large and far too empty bed.

Two excruciatingly long weeks of this had dragged by before Sherlock had finally snapped. The previous night he had called Mycroft, not bothering to hide his fury, and gave him an ultimatum. At long last, Sherlock had identified the primary suspect of the murders and, based on her previous targets, had unearthed the most likely location of her next strike. The force was preparing to stake out the place the following evening and catch her by surprise, and Sherlock had told Mycroft that he either needed to bring John in for the event, or Sherlock would back out. Another sizeable argument had followed this demand, but even Mycroft couldn’t deny how much better Sherlock’s game was when John was with him. Playing to brotherly instinct and tempting him with the promise of closing the case within 24 hours, Sherlock won him over and Mycroft had, very resentfully, agreed to fly John out the next morning.

Now, as Sherlock stepped out of the lift and into the glass-panelled conference room that the force had given to him as a makeshift office while he was here, the nerves and irritation that he’d been feeling constantly throughout this case began to ebb slightly. He knew it was down to the wire and he needed to concentrate – there was still vital information to find out about the suspect and strategies to finalize for tonight – but the thought of John at his side once again made warmth bloom in his chest. In just four hours, John would be here with him, smiling and saying things and being amazing, brilliant John. Even his insufferable brother couldn’t get in the way of that.

A small smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips as he swept off his coat and sat down with the suspect’s file, imagining that he could feel the warmth radiating off John’s body as he leaned in over Sherlock’s shoulder to read it.

* * *

Verusha Sokolov embodied every twisted, unfeeling, reprehensible trait that Sherlock despised about underground criminals. She appeared to be a sort of matriarch to a rival family of the victims, and her name had been showing up on suspect lists of gruesome murders for the past decade. She’d stood trial on four occasions and been miraculously acquitted on all of them due to lack of circumstantial evidence, no doubt a testament to her own skill and repulsive intuitions about dealing with crime scenes and fallout. Other times, she’d been listed as a suspect and scheduled for trial, only to have another Sokolov come forward unexpectedly and confess to the crime. Years ago, Sherlock might have admired her for her ruthless brilliance, but since his experiences with Mary and Moriarty he’d found himself rather put off by psychopaths. Especially those who thought nothing of selling out their own family.

Four and a half hours later and Sherlock was up to his knees in police reports and murder files, papers flying haphazardly around the table as he worked through Sokolov’s most likely method of attack, when he was granted a blessed reprieve at the sound of the lift doors sliding open.

Sherlock’s head snapped up just in time to see John – his John – exiting the lift and looking more radiant, Sherlock was sure, than he’d ever been. He was wearing his usual Haversack jacket and carrying two coffees, and at the sight of Sherlock his face lit up in a smile that seemed to make everything around him disappear.

Sherlock practically jumped out of his chair and strode purposefully toward the door of the conference room, intending with every step to wrap his arms around John’s compact frame and snog him breathless – but suddenly he remembered where he was and stopped in his tracks.

The entire floor was, of course, swarming with Russian police officers.

A dreadful weight settled in Sherlock’s stomach as he looked desperately at the men and women around him. At least ten of them in the immediate vicinity, all of them armed, and all bound by law to put a stop to any homosexual activity they witnessed. They’d been gracious (or perhaps simply put off) enough thus far to leave Sherlock in relative peace while he worked, but there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that nothing could make them turn on him more quickly than to see him embrace another man in the middle of their station.

John was now standing in front of him and was looking confused at Sherlock’s sudden stillness. Sherlock sighed quietly and turned back to him, trying to convey his resignation and apology without words. John arched an eyebrow, still unsure, and Sherlock nodded fractionally toward the officers working quietly around them.

Sherlock hated the shadow of disappointment he saw in John’s brilliant, beautiful eyes as comprehension dawned on his face. John nodded once, curtly, and cast his gaze down, trying to break the tension of the moment but only succeeding in making the pit in Sherlock’s stomach swell to twice its size.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “How…was your flight?” He wanted to choke back those words even as he said them. It was as if they didn’t know each other at all.

“Uh, fine.” John’s reply sounded equally strained. “It was good of Mycroft to bring me in so quickly.”

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. God, this was awful. His entire body ached with a need to move toward John, to hold him, to feel his warm skin under his hands. He thought he’d been miserable before; he hadn’t counted on how unbearable it would be to have John right in front of him, within his reach, and not be able to touch him.

“Well,” he gestured toward the conference room, his voice resolutely stiff. “You may as well come have a look.”

“Yeah, great. Oh.” John suddenly seemed to remember the coffees he was carrying and held out one of the cups to Sherlock. “Here.”

His eyes flickered back up to Sherlock, his gaze carrying no small amount of heat behind his reserved expression. Sherlock swallowed, knowing full well that John was having just as much difficulty holding back as he was. He tried once more to look apologetic – God knows this isn’t how he had pictured their reunion – but John gave him a soft smile, to show he understood.

“Thank you.” Sherlock took the coffee from John, deliberately not touching his fingers as he did so.

John paused a moment before tearing his gaze away, and stepped tantalizingly close as he strode past Sherlock and into the conference room. Sherlock took a moment before following him, sipping at his coffee and suppressing a sudden unexpected tide of affection at the taste. Black, two sugars. Obviously. John always got it right.

“What are we looking at here, then?” John had already sat down, his jacket folded over the back of the chair, when Sherlock closed the glass door behind them. He bent over the table again, rummaged a bit through the stack of papers.

“Verusha Sokolov.” He extracted the file triumphantly and handed it off to John, who began poring over its contents. “Forty-seven years old, kingpin of the Sokolov family, and all but untouchable for the past ten years. The Sokolovs have storied and bloody history with the Orlovas, the family to which all the victims belonged.”

“You’re sure it’s her?” John was skimming over accounts of the previous cases she’d been involved in with no small amount of disgust.

“Almost certainly. Look.” Sherlock pulled out the chair next to him and sat, pointing towards a set of pictures taken at the last crime scene. “The last victim, Andrei Orlova, had distinct bruises around his neck – obvious strangulation. Certainly a risky way to murder someone, especially a mobster who’s likely to be a worthy opponent in hand-to-hand combat, and not typically the style of a contract killer. Therefore the murderer was deeply invested in the job, and was willing to take certain risks to make sure it was done as cleanly and efficiently as possible. That indicates a personal relationship with the victim, likely a vendetta, which says not only a rival family but a particular hostility of a hated opponent. We also know that eight other members of the Orlova family have died in the past three weeks – the murderer’s picking her way through their ranks, letting them know that no one is safe. That’s not the behavior of some underling with a superficial debt to settle, that’s a commander with an endgame. Most leaders in that position would delegate jobs like that, so as to not get their hands dirty, unless the ties ran deep enough for her to trust no one but herself to get the job done. It can’t be anyone but Sokolov – she’s the only one who’s skilled enough, involved enough, and we know from all these trials that she doesn’t much mind being recognized for her dirty work.”

Instinctively looking toward John as he paused for breath, Sherlock’s heart positively leapt at the sight of John smiling that familiar crooked smile, and gazing down at the pictures with something like wonder.

“Brilliant,” he said, almost too softly for Sherlock to hear. Still, the praise he’d gone so long without made colour rise in Sherlock’s cheeks, and he had to tear his gaze away again.

“Um…” He sputtered stupidly, shuffling papers around in his embarrassment. “If we, uh.” He cleared his throat. Get it together, Sherlock. “We have intelligence on six known safe houses, four of which are within ten city blocks of where the victims were found. It’s nearly impossible to track her MO, but their placement can’t be a coincidence, so she almost certainly visits one of the locations around the time of her killings. Andrei Orlova was killed two nights ago, and all the victims before him have been killed with decreasing increments of time between them. So whoever Sokolov is threatening, she’s getting close.”

“Threatening?” John chimed in, blinking.

“Obviously.” Sherlock couldn’t quite keep the smirk out of his voice as he said it, loving the barely-detectable edge of exasperation that settled in the corners of John’s mouth. God, he’d missed him. “All the previous victims were younger members, none of them older than thirty-five. Probably held junior positions within the family, unlikely to arouse the wrath of such a major opponent. They’re dispensable, more easily killed, and clearly taken notice of when they go missing.”

John nodded slowly, jaw set in a firm line: the subtlest indication to the experienced John-watcher of barely contained revulsion. “So she picks off her mark’s family, strikes fear into his heart, so he knows she’s coming for him and then…”

“Knocks off the king when there are no pawns left to defend him, yes.” Sherlock’s mind was rapidly speeding up, the spacecraft on the launch pad, firing on all cylinders.

“Fantastic.” The corner of John’s mouth turned up into a smirk; despite the circumstances, he was enjoying this, too. “So that’s our mark then? The Orlova kingpin?”

“Almost certainly.” Sherlock passed him a file, open to a black-and-white headshot of gaunt, grey-haired man. “Dmitri Orlova, sixty-two. Andrei Orlova was his son.”

“Mmm. Charming. And he’s our happy victim tonight?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock heart was pounding merrily.

As if detecting and feeding off Sherlock’s excitement – which he was, of course he was, so in tune were they on matters just like these – John’s grin broke out clear across his face. “And where are we surprising them?”

Sherlock couldn’t help beaming at him in return as he pushed a map towards him, indicating one of several large red circles. “Here. Griff Street. One of Sokolov’s safe houses is three blocks away, in the basement of a café, and it’s the closest one to Dmitri Orlova’s primary residence. He went underground when the killings started, but we’ve got surveillance in his building and we know he’s been going back there – every three nights, to check his locks and his safe. Sokolov will go to the café first, most likely, to regroup, and then up to Griff Street to surprise him when he gets in – at about quarter to eleven.”

“You’re sure about this?” John’s eyebrows were raised tensely.

“Absolutely.”

John cocked his head in disbelief, and Sherlock backtracked reluctantly. “Alright, obviously I can’t be entirely sure, but it’s the most likely scenario given the parties at play.” John still looked dubious, so Sherlock sighed and went on. “Look – Orlova is our mark, John. This might be the only chance we have for years to catch Sokolov in the act. We have a fairly good idea of where she’ll be and when, and the police here, though astoundingly idiotic, have a good chance of taking her with a strategic plan of attack. Yes, it’s risky, but this woman is a menace, John, and we’re so close-”

“I know, love.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, stopping his anxious train of thought before it spiralled out of control. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and squeezed back, gratefully, meeting John’s soft, reassuring eyes and feeling his mind slow down instantly at the sight.

Suddenly though, John’s eyes widened, and Sherlock’s heart leapt to his throat as he realized where they were. John released his hand as if it had burned him, and even through the haze of Sherlock’s panic, he had to clench his teeth to stop himself from crying out at the loss of contact. He felt suddenly colder, his skin seeming to instinctively seek out the warmth of John’s touch, and he clenched his hand in his lap as he frantically looked around the room outside the glass windows. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

None of the officers had moved; no one appeared to have noticed the gesture, or heard the endearment, and Sherlock relaxed marginally. John’s mouth was set in a firm line, and his gaze was trailing over the files without taking in any of the information. His breath was coming in twenty percent faster than its normal rate, and Sherlock ached with the need to reach out to him, to wrap his arms around his shoulders, to press his lips to his temple and whisper that everything was alright, they were safe, no one had seen them – even as he was mentally kicking himself for such a miniscule gesture that had nonetheless been so reckless.

This case needed to be finished, and tonight.

Resolute determination slowly pushed out the last of his panic and seemed to settle in the center of his chest, pulsing through his bloodstream more forcefully with every passing second. Steeling himself as quickly as he could, he unearthed another map from the mountain of papers, this one with various locations around Griff Street marked with black X’s. This was his attack stratagem, which he’d been working on for the past hour, and it indicated the location and function of each officer in on the raid tonight. He pushed it toward John, who looked up at him again, this time with an apologetic caution in his eyes that pierced straight into Sherlock’s heart.

Still, he pushed past the sensation – filing it away for later when he could kiss that look right off of John’s face – and pointed to Orlova’s building on the centre of the map. “This is where you come in.”

John visibly relaxed, and he smiled again – that soft, private smile that he saved for Sherlock alone – and Sherlock thrilled so much at the sight that he couldn’t help but return it.

“Fantastic.” John’s voice was low, still cautious, but simmering with unrestrained fondness just below the surface. “Where do we start?”

Sherlock permitted himself one more second to revel in his own admiration for this man - this beautiful, brilliant man, whose patience was unparalleled, who always understood Sherlock no matter what the situation, who had just flown across a continent because Sherlock was lonely and needed help – before he launched into the plan.

They spent the next hour or so going over the details – where exactly they would be positioned, what weapons they would use, how they would anticipate Sokolov’s movements while still avoiding detection, and how they would intercept her before she could reach Orlova. There wasn’t much room for error – if anything went wrong they would risk losing Sokolov and endangering the lives of their officers – but Sherlock was confident in their ability to pull it off. John wasn’t so sure, though, and made several changes to the plan in order to ensure as much safety as possible without compromising their chances. Sherlock let him do it with little protest. He was usually right, after all.

Sherlock watched him as he bent over the maps, pen in hand, making notations in the margins, moving certain officers here and there. He was so precise, so thorough in his consideration of every change, and Sherlock marvelled, not for the first time, at that strange sort of distant, yet heartfelt soldierly compassion that motivated his decisions. It stood so separate from Sherlock’s own calculating approach to the puzzle, but still so necessary; Sherlock’s preliminary plan was designed to catch Sokolov, but John’s input would make sure it played out with the smallest possible damage. I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life.

That such an enormous heart could exist in one modest, unassuming man was eternally mystifying to Sherlock. That that man had wilfully given that enormous heart to Sherlock, without condition or demand, without question or protest, was even more incredible.

Sherlock couldn’t take it, so overwhelmed was he by how much he needed John Watson, needed him so badly, not just to complete the puzzle but to fill in all the broken pieces of himself that couldn’t exist apart from him anymore. Two weeks was an eternity to be away from him, and Sherlock couldn’t stand it a second longer. He had to touch him, to hold some part of him, if only in some innocent, subtle way that could be hidden from view until they could be together properly again.

John’s right hand was resting on his lap, underneath the table, safely out of view to anyone who looked into their conference room. Sherlock reached out his own hand and covered it, gently, threading his long fingers between John’s broader ones, settling himself into his warm, comforting grip, just where he belonged.

John trailed off from whatever he had been saying. His face didn’t change, but he turned his head microscopically to look at Sherlock, a hint of worry behind his questioning eyes.

Sherlock smiled softly, trying to convey everything through the simple quirk of his lips; his gratitude toward John for coming, his happiness at their working together again, how much he’d missed him these past two weeks, along with all the words he’d been dying to say to him during their time apart, but hadn’t had the opportunity for.

That would have to come later, though. Instead, he just let out the softest of sighs, and hoped John could read everything he was thinking in the depths of his gaze.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Sherlock’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.

The worry in John’s expression melted away, and was replaced by a tenderness so profound that it seemed to push all the air out of Sherlock’s lungs. John’s subtle smile was fond and understanding, and he gave Sherlock’s hand a reassuring squeeze and rubbed his thumb soothingly over the back of Sherlock’s palm.

“So am I.”

Everything racing through Sherlock’s mind was reflected back unmistakably in John’s eyes, blue and deep and fathomless as the sea.

Sherlock’s grin spread wide over his face, and John answered with one of his own, each of them feeling lighter, more whole, slightly less burdened of the weight they’d been carrying in their chests throughout their long separation.

They turned back to the maps then, and the plan, but kept their hands clasped under the table, out of sight of the surrounding officers, occasionally giving each other a reassuring squeeze or a soft sweet brush of fingers over the other’s palm. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a small, comforting anchor to each other in this hostile territory, and an earnest promise of what was to come when all of this was safely wrapped up.

* * *

Sherlock’s watch read 10:37 pm.

He was crouched on the roof of Orlova’s building, his coat collar pulled up to shield his face from the wind and from any potential onlookers. The night was dark, but the building was only six stories tall; it was still possible that a trained eye in the surrounding skyscrapers could make him out.

“The entrance is clear, Sherlock,” John’s voice crackled over the small handheld radio. “Get in there, now.”

“Got it,” Sherlock replied, holding the radio close to his lips so his words wouldn’t be carried off by the breeze.

He pocketed the radio and swung himself over the ledge of the roof, skipping the ladder and leaping down onto the platform of the fire escape. The curtains inside were drawn, but no light was visible in the room beyond, and the entire building was silent as the grave. Sherlock stood still for a moment, making sure it was safe, then pulled a small penknife from his pocket. He slid the blade underneath the window ledge, and after two or three slow passes the latch clicked open.

Slowly, as silently as he could, Sherlock pulled the window open. Still hearing nothing from within, he chanced to peek through the curtains.

The window opened into a large sitting room, with a door to the kitchen on one end and a large fireplace surrounded by leather chairs on other. Sherlock scanned the room as thoroughly as the light would allow, and seeing nothing out of place, slid through the window and closed it again, leaving it unlatched. He drew his weapon and, taking care to quiet his footsteps, moved about the room checking all possible hiding places. He reached into the fireplace and groped along the left wall, confirming the location of the safe with the discovery of three iron hinges in the back corner. Satisfied, and certain now that the room was clear, he retreated to a wide wingback chair in the corner and crouched behind it, digging deep in his pockets for the radio.

“The sitting room’s clear,” he whispered into the mouthpiece. “No signs of a previous forced entry on the window or the door, and no one’s been in this room for at least three days, judging by the dust.”

“Everything looks normal?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m coming up.”

Sherlock set the radio on the floor, turning it off to avoid the static. He picked up his gun again and flicked off the safety, setting that down beside the radio.

Outside, the metallic rattling of the fire escape could be heard. Sherlock knew it was John, but his heart sped up incrementally anyway, and his fingers instinctively closed around the handle of his pistol.

John rapped softly on the window pane, three times quick succession, before pulling it open and sliding inside. He latched it again behind him, and drew the curtains closed, cutting off most of the insignificant light source remaining to the room.

“Sherlock?” he breathed to the space at large, his eyes darting back and forth.

“Over here,” Sherlock called out to him in a whisper. John’s eyes locked onto the chair and he crossed the space in two strides and crouched down beside Sherlock. He held his gun with both hands.

“The building’s surrounded. Officers on every floor, and lookouts in position across the street. Is it here?” John’s breathing rate and posture were both calm, but his voice was low with adrenaline.

“Yes. Fireplace.” Sherlock worked to keep his voice even; he was suddenly feeling the adrenaline himself, though whether from the case or from John’s sudden presence at his side he couldn’t be sure. “Consistent with the last reports.”

“And the alarms?”

“Disabled for the next fourteen minutes, on Mycroft’s command” Even here, in the adrenaline-fueled chase of a high-stakes break-in, Sherlock couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice as he said his brother’s name. John clearly heard it too, and let out a single breath of laughter.

Sherlock’s heart soared at the familiarity of this. The two of them, at the height of a dangerous case, and laughing at something so mundane. It was like coming home.

“So she’ll be here by then?”

John’s question snapped Sherlock back into their dark reality. Right. Case first. Sentiment later. “Yes, she should be.” He curled his other hand around the one still clutching his gun, leveling the handle against his chest and shifting to give himself a direct line of sight to the kitchen door.

John nodded curtly in the dark and leaned back so he could peer around the leg of the chair and out towards the window.

Minutes passed, the two of them doing their best to breathe quietly in the silent space. Sherlock never took his eyes off the door, but he could sense John’s presence behind him nonetheless, that silver blond hair tinted with moonlight, the firm muscles of his back and arms pulled taut as he lifted his weapon, his callused fingers settled lightly and precisely on the trigger. He didn’t need to see him to picture it, so familiar was he with John’s movements, his calm, soldierly demeanor. He knew exactly how John’s right hand would fit into his left as he gripped his gun, the rate of the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the precise shade of gray-blue his eyes would be shining in this meager light. And this knowledge made it almost impossible for Sherlock not to turn around and see them for himself.

Not now, Sherlock, he chastised himself again. We’re on a case, a very dangerous and important case. Focus. Don’t think about that, don’t think about his silhouette against this green wallpaper, don’t think about his hands which are probably cold from climbing the fire escape, or his lips that could be chapped from the wind, don’t think about the fact that this is the first time we’ve been alone together all day, and in a dark place safely out of anyone’s sight…

A soft, deliberate footstep sounded on the other side of the door. Sherlock cocked his gun and raised it higher, and John spun away from the window and did the same.

Silence fell again, as quickly as it has been broken. Their synchronized breathing was the only thing that could be heard.

“Which one?” John’s voice was barely detectable, just the smallest whisper of breath against Sherlock’s neck. Still, Sherlock felt the sensation in his entire body, firing through his neurons like electricity. He suppressed a shiver, and tried very hard to stop the hitch in his voice when the air finally returned to his lungs.

“Orlova.” He breathed back, barely audible even to himself. “Sokolov knows about the alarms, she wouldn’t just come in through the front door.”

Sherlock felt John’s curt nod behind him rather than saw it. His breathing was even, but heavy, as if he were trying too hard to keep it steady.

A soft, nearly imperceptible rustling from the kitchen, and John raised his gun up higher. Sherlock’s focus snapped back, his vision narrowing to the barrel of his gun and the door, all his attention focused on what was going on behind it.

Then silence again – what was he doing in there? – but Sherlock kept himself still, his entire world shrinking to his sightline on the door, the hardwood floor under his stiff knees, John’s hot breath on his neck.

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He turned his head, caught John’s wide eyes shining in the darkness. His heart clenched at what he saw there, so close to him, so near at last to the shining, visceral want that lay behind his fear.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he held himself in John’s gaze, his own eyes falling hooded, unable to meet John’s straight on. John’s breath was coming fast now, and hard, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s and so plainly displaying everything Sherlock had been thinking all day, that tension pulled taut like a bowstring, that need for closeness that had been denied them for such an unbearably long time.

“Sherlock…” John breathed his name out like a prayer.

They were on a case, they couldn’t do this, they absolutely couldn’t do this now, but they were so close, so, so close, and it would be so easy to lean in just a few inches and close that gap…

The doorknob rattled loudly, snapping them both out of the spell and forcing them to tear their gaze away with the utmost reluctance. They raised their weapons in unison, both sucking in a steadying breath as the door was unlocked and swung wide into the room.

The outline of a tall, emaciated man stumbled through the door and fell on its knees in front of the fireplace. Orlova reached in and fumbled with the lock, his hands visibly shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed like gunshots in the previously silent room.

Sherlock made a move to stand up, to move toward him, but John stopped him suddenly with a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked around questioningly, and John indicated with a single jerk of his head toward the window.

Sure enough, the unmistakeable clang of boots hitting metal trickled in from outside. Orlova, preoccupied with the safe, didn’t seem to hear it, but Sherlock understood in less than a second. Sokolov was coming, and quickly.

Without words, John indicated that Sherlock should cover Orlova. Sherlock nodded, edging as close as he could to him without being detected.

The telltale sound of the blade of a knife sweeping under the window pane echoed through the sitting room. Orlova stopped moving, but didn’t turn around. He grew silent, and Sherlock all but held his breath.

In one fluid motion, the latch clicked and the window was wrenched open. Sherlock leapt out of his hiding place and onto Orlova just as John stood up and fired.

* * *

“She was armed with a Makarov 71, and was taking aim at Orlova’s head when I took the shot.”

“I am sorry, who are you again?”

John let out a frustrated sigh before giving out his full information to the confused DI, along with the confirmation that yes, he was one of Mycroft’s men. Sherlock stood at a safe distance, deferring as best he could the questions of some bratty junior officer, and trying not to insult every federal investigator in sight.

They were on the sidewalk of Griff Street, in front of the entrance to Orlova’s building which had been sectioned off with yellow tape. Sirens wailed several blocks away, adorning the ambulance that had taken Sokolov away, complete with bullet embedded in her left arm and an impressive concussion inflicted afterward. A mercifully silent police car had taken Orlova as well, who had been treated for shock and taken down to the station to be questioned for a complete history of the relationship between his family and Sokolov’s. Sherlock didn’t envy him; even without factoring in his lack of control over his mental faculties, Orlova’s account was likely to take all night.

“Mr. Holmes!” the DI called to him, weariness evident in his voice. “We just need final confirmation from you so we can attest to Dr. Watson’s account.”

Sherlock gladly left the young officer, whose questions were getting a little too personal for his liking. He sidled up beside John, careful to keep a safe distance between them. “I can vouch for everything Dr. Watson has just said. He is of sound mind and very trustworthy, and you’ll find that his account of the events lines up with the timeline provided by each one of your officers.”

“And I can expect this all to be confirmed by Mycroft Holmes?” The DI raised an eyebrow, though he couldn’t quite keep the exasperation out of his voice. Clearly he was as eager as anyone to be leaving this all alone.

“Certainly. In fact,” Sherlock checked his watch. 11:30 pm. Still 7:30 in Britain, although, there would be massive amounts of paperwork and fact checking to do…

“Call him right now,” Sherlock continued, doing his best to keep a straight face. “He won’t be busy, he can confirm anything you want. Make sure you run everything by him, too. For the records, you know.”

John turned his face away from the DI, but Sherlock distinctly heard the snicker he tried to muffle with his coat collar.

The DI looked a little confused, but was immediately overpowered by relief. “Alright then, that is all we will need from you two. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, inspector,” Sherlock replied as cordially as possible, despite the massive kick his heartbeat had just taken. It’s over, we’re done, the case is finished, we can leave…

“Not at all.” Despite himself, the weary DI managed a smile. “Thank you both, for your services here. It will be a glorious day down at the station tomorrow, when news gets out that Sokolov is down at last.”

“Well, we’re glad to help.” John actually managed a polite smile as he said it. Show off.

“Thank you again. You gentlemen be careful out there, it is a dangerous city at night.” The DI attempted a half-hearted laugh, but it came out sounding rather pathetic.

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Well given that we’ve just taken down your country’s most dangerous criminal I think we’ll be just fine. Good evening.” He turned around gratefully, his coat billowing behind him.

John lingered behind a second, probably to give the DI a bemused apology, and followed close behind. Sherlock lifted up the crime scene tape for John to step underneath.

“Think they’ll be alright now?” John fell into step beside him, as they moved down the sidewalk, giving themselves some distance from the building and the surrounding officers.

“Who?”

“Them.” John jerked his head back toward the crime scene. “With bringing down the rest of the families. Sokolov and Orlova can’t have been the only major players.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up “No. Mycroft knows of at least three others. But with Sokolov down, they’ll all be vulnerable. Worried for their safety. They’ll change their patterns, try and avoid the mistakes that Sokolov made. They’ll get reckless. Some of their activities will necessarily bring them out into the open. And now the police know how to recognize the signs, they should have no problem sussing out at least a few of their seconds- and thirds-in-command. Get them under control again.”

“You really have that much faith in them?” John was grinning up at him now.

“Not especially. But even the most incompetent of officers will catch a few at least by accident.”

John burst into a fit of giggles, lowering his head to hide them from the officers still within earshot. Sherlock chuckled in response. His heart was soaring.

“And anyway, it’s hardly my concern anymore.” Sherlock looked over at John, whose face lined with laughter made him look ten years younger.

“Hmm. Well you’re right about that.” John smiled back, full of admiration and amazement. Sherlock had never seen anyone so beautiful.

They’d reached the intersection with the main road, and stopped walking, but stood facing each other for a while. Neither of them seemed able to tear their eyes away.

“You were brilliant back there,” John said softly, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained fondness. He looked prouder of him than Sherlock could have thought possible, and he accordingly felt heat rise in his cheeks.

There was a good three feet of distance between them, but suddenly it felt as if they were closer than they’d been all day. Finally they had no responsibilities, no one watching them, no one to answer to. It was as if a wall lying between them had suddenly come crashing down, and they were finally free.

“So were you.” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a murmur, his smile slight but displaying the entire fullness of his heart.

The answer in John’s eyes was just as obvious.

Sherlock made a move to step closer, to finally close this interminable space, but at that precise moment a car horn sounded and pulled him out of his reverie.

Damn. They were still on the main road. Still in public.

Understanding dawned in John’s eyes a nanosecond after Sherlock’s own. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and looked away, but the determination in his expression was unmistakeable.

“Well, shall we see if we can find a cab?”

Sherlock nodded curtly in response, and they set off down the main road together. But now every step felt laden with purpose, with slowly building energy, with a need to get back to the hotel right this moment.

Soon he was able to flag down a cab, and he climbed into it after John. He barked the directions at the driver as well as his broken Russian would allow, and then settled into the corner of the seat, purposely sitting as far away from John as he could manage.

Still, the entire ride was an exercise in restraint. John spent most of the time staring out the window, but would occasionally turn and catch Sherlock’s eye, lingering for a dangerously long moment before shifting his gaze away again.

Sherlock could hear his blood pounding in his eardrums. He clenched his hands in his lap, then folded them across his chest, fiddled with the buttons on his coat, smoothed away the dust from the windowsill. He couldn’t seem to find a comfortable place for them, or keep them still long enough in any one position. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fingers on John’s hands – John’s beautiful, strong, nimble hands – drumming out patterns on the seat between them. Out of necessity, he laced his own fingers together and clenched them, needing to physically stop himself from pulling John towards him by the hand to snog him right in the back of this bloody cab.

The tension between them was electric – it was fire crackling in every stolen glance, it was overwhelming heat in every shifting movement; it was lightning striking his chest with each beat of his heart, with so much want in him he felt like he would burst into flame.

After what felt like eons, the cab finally – finally – pulled up to the hotel. Sherlock thanked the driver as briefly as possible, and then shoved some rubles in his general direction. The driver took them, eyed him suspiciously, looked briefly back and forth between him and John, and then with a small sneer turned around to face the front again.

Anger flared briefly up behind Sherlock’s eyes, but he quelled it and pushed it aside, clambering swiftly out of the cab. Aware suddenly of where they were – and of how many people were still milling about in the lobby despite the late hour – he took a few deep, steadying breaths as he watched the cab pull away. The case may be finished, but they still had to be careful.

He crossed over to stand in front of John, who had stopped on the sidewalk in front of the revolving doors. Sherlock looked around once, to make sure no one was around that could hear them, and then pitched his voice low.

“Room 1887” He reached into his pocket and dug out his extra key card, surreptitiously pushing it into John’s hand on the side facing away from the lobby. “Eighteenth floor, at the very end of the left hallway.”

“Right.” John’s eyes were hooded and his voice was shaky. He took the card and pocketed it with trembling fingers.

“No one’s likely to know we’re here, but this is still a rather traditional hotel.” Sherlock’s eyes roamed over their surroundings as he spoke, making sure they were still alone. “So wait about ten minutes, maybe have a drink at the bar before you come up.”

“Okay.” John nodded stiffly, his voice nearly breaking on his brief assent.

Sherlock looked back down at him; John’s eyes were dark, his lips parted slightly, and there was a pure visceral want in his expression that made Sherlock’s knees go weak.

Sherlock allowed himself a few more precious seconds of staring at him – at his beautiful, perfect man, who wanted him so much that it may as well have been written on his face – and then he glanced around one last time, just to be safe, before covertly reaching forward and squeezing John’s fingers between his own.

“See you soon,” he breathed, letting his gaze trail once more down toward John’s lips, and then reluctantly let go of his hand to turn and sweep through the revolving door.

* * *

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the dark window, the lights of the city below twinkling up through the settling mist.

Eight minutes.

The room was dark and bare; Sherlock had straightened up the mess that had accumulated throughout his stay by piling everything into his suitcase and shoving it into the closet. He had turned on a single lamp in the corner of the room, which projected a dim light and created strange shadowy shapes on the floor.

Nine minutes.

Sherlock couldn’t stop fidgeting.

He dug through the pockets of his coat – slung over the back of the desk chair – and pulled out his phone. A message from Mycroft, containing a single sentence of congratulations. Sherlock shoved the phone back into his coat without replying.

He returned to the window, trying to calm his anticipation by gazing out over the city.

He had no idea what he was looking at, and he didn’t care.

Nine minutes and forty-six seconds.

Where on earth was he?

Sherlock forced himself to take a deep calming breath. Ten minutes, he had said. Ten minutes, and then it would be safe for John to come. It hadn’t even been ten minutes yet. There was no need to be so anxious. Even so, John might decide to err on the side of caution, and wait even longer.

Ten minutes and twelve seconds.

This was unbearable.

He pictured John down at the bar, swirling the liquid in his glass and checking his watch every few minutes, trying for the life of him not to look as conspicuous as he felt. Waiting, just as Sherlock was waiting, for the perfect moment to slip away.

The innocent image alone shot through Sherlock’s heart like a bullet.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing mind.

Eleven minutes.

Eleven and a half.

Twelve.

The lock suddenly clicked open.

Sherlock spun around and was across the room before John was completely through the door.

Sherlock pushed John up against the door – slamming it with a loud bang – and finally, finally captured his lips in a bone-deep kiss.

John made a noise low in his throat, somewhere between surprise and relief, and pulled Sherlock closer to him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other snaking around his torso and fisting in the material of his shirt.

Sherlock’s hands were cradling John’s face, one of them pushing back to stroke through John’s hair and Oh, God, this was like heaven. His heart was soaring, his head mercifully light, and John’s entire body was flush against his, warm and sturdy and wanting and here, here, finally here…

Sherlock pushed his tongue greedily past John’s lips, and John moaned lowly as he responded with enthusiasm. The heat of his mouth was warm and inviting; he tasted like coffee and biscuits, like 20-year-old Scottish whiskey, like love, like home.

Sherlock lowered his arms to wrap around John’s body and pull him impossibly closer, needing more, still more. He curled his tongue against John’s, inviting him deeper, and let his own rumbling moan of pleasure escape from his throat.

John broke off suddenly, breathing heavily, his hands gripping still more tightly. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock didn’t let him finish. He dove back in, kissing him even more deeply than before, holding him so tightly and never ever wanting to let go.

John couldn’t help but respond, pushing his tongue between Sherlock’s lips and stroking it sweetly along Sherlock’s own, eliciting a second, deeper moan from deep in his chest and causing his knees to buckle.

“Sherlock!” John broke off again, holding him steady, keeping his lips just centimeters from Sherlock’s, still unwilling to pull away.

Sherlock dragged his nose up the side of John’s slowly, sweetly, and finally opened his eyes. John’s gaze was so full of feeling, of tenderness that Sherlock felt all the air leave his lungs.

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay,” John murmured against his lips, moving a hand up to stroke through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He smiled softly, that private smile that was just for Sherlock. “We’ve got all night.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, and leaned his forehead against John’s, allowing his eyes to fall closed again. He melted into John’s touch, feeling in the warmth of his body so deeply it was as if he were absorbing it.

“I missed you so much.” Sherlock’s voice was scarcely a whisper, and shaking uncontrollably.

An unmistakeable hitch sounded in John’s breath, and then he was kissing him again, slowly and sweetly this time.

“I know, I know,” he said between kisses, his voice so full of emotion it was excruciating. “God, I missed you too, you can’t know how much I missed you.”

Something like a sob was pulled out of the back of Sherlock’s throat, and he pulled John close, kissing him hard and desperate, needing him so badly it was almost painful, needing every inch of John, needing every beat of his pounding heart.

He hadn’t even realized that they were both hard, their cocks flush against each other through far too many layers of fabric. Sherlock slid a hand down John’s back to grip his arse, causing him to rut once against Sherlock’s thigh and break off their kiss with a gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart,” John breathed, desire dripping from every syllable.

Sherlock pulled him back in, desperation returning to their kisses, hands tightly gripping whatever they could reach. Without breaking their contact Sherlock began to walk backward, leading John towards the bed with his entire body.

John took the hint and pushed forward, a sort of frantic aggression guiding his hands’ exploration of Sherlock’s back. They stumbled and groped their way to the center of the room, kissing and gasping and moaning quietly between each other’s lips.

The back of Sherlock’s legs hit the foot of the bed and he sat down on it, pulling John’s face down toward him, unwilling to stop kissing him even for a second. John leaned down to accommodate him and crawled into his lap, straddling his legs and wrapping his arms firmly around Sherlock’s shoulders.

They stayed there for a moment, enfolded in each other, savoring the feeling of their bodies so in tune with each other. John’s weight was heavy against Sherlock’s legs, his chest warm where it pressed up against Sherlock’s, his arms finding the optimal resting place to hold him as close as possible, and Sherlock marvelled at how seamlessly they could come back together, how perfectly they fit, how clearly they were always meant to be there.

“I never want to be away from you again,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely against John’s perfect lips. “Not ever, not even for a moment.”

“No, never.” John shook his head once, his eyes hooded and full of longing. “Never again.”

“I can’t be without you.” Sherlock’s voice hitched again, a dangerous lump rising in his throat. “Not anymore. I don’t know how.”

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock…” John’s eyes shone brightly, and he pulled him back in for another bruising kiss. “I’m here, I’m here love, I’ll always be here.”

It was more than reassurance; it was a promise, and it coursed like sunlight through Sherlock’s veins. “I know, I know.”

They held each other that way, Sherlock wasn’t sure how long, sealing that promise with a hard, desperate kiss. John’s hands smoothed up and down Sherlock’s back, his eyelashes fluttering against Sherlock’s face, his lips nipping sweetly at Sherlock’s mouth, and his adoration was so powerful that Sherlock thought his heart might crack under the weight of it.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. They weren’t close enough, weren’t touching with enough of their skin, and Sherlock needed everything, and needed it now.

He broke off from John’s lips and began kissing a line along John’s jaw and down to his neck. John moaned breathily and leaned his head back, giving him more room, and Sherlock took the invitation gladly. He paid special attention to the space between his collarbones, nipping at it lightly with his teeth, making John gasp and reach a hand up to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, cradling his head against him like something precious. Sherlock continued his path, pushing back the collar of John’s shirt with his hands and kissing up his left collarbone, finding the perfect place at the base of his neck and biting gently.

John cried out sharply, lurching toward Sherlock and pulling him closer with the arm still wrapped around his shoulders. Sherlock grinned against his skin, sucking slightly and lapping it with his tongue, relishing the desperate sounds John was making above him. He kissed the yellowing mark he had made, and then continued his path downward, getting to work on the buttons of John’s shirt as he went. He pulled the front of it open and snaked his arms inside, hands roaming up and down the glorious planes of John’s back as he worked his lips down his chest.

John cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands and drew him up again, thumbs swiping over the hard lines of his cheekbones as he kissed him, less hurriedly than before. He shrugged himself the rest of the way out of his shirt and let it fall to the floor, all of his beautiful upper body now bared to Sherlock’s greedy eyes. Sherlock ran his hands down over his muscled arms, up his taut stomach, lingering over his peaked nipples, needing to touch him everywhere, needing to feel the entirety of John’s body underneath his hands.

John’s breath was coming in incrementally faster, his eyes hooded and his pupils blown wide. With unsteady hands he began to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, slowing as he went to let himself melt into Sherlock’s touch. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, occasionally capturing his lips as he fumbled his way down his torso.

Sherlock tilted his chin up, leaning fully into the kiss, and reached up to gently take John’s shaking fingers and move them away. He then made quick work of his own buttons and tossed his shirt aside, then pulled John’s hands back to resume their path.

John sighed gratefully, smiling against his lips. He leaned forward so that they were chest to chest, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso almost protectively. He nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip, playfully, then grinned for a moment, pulled the lip between his teeth, and sucked.

The sensation sent a bolt of feeling right to Sherlock’s cock, and he groaned loudly into John’s mouth. John’s smile widened, and he dove in again, pushing his tongue back between Sherlock’s lips, alternating between deep, warm kisses and light playful nips. Sherlock fell back against the mattress, his arms pulling John down with him, and shuffled himself up to the head of the bed, letting John’s lips chase his as he went.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this.” John settled himself on top of Sherlock, his hands cupping Sherlock’s face, his leg slotting between Sherlock’s thighs. “God, has it really only been two weeks?”

“Sixteen days.” Sherlock’s hands roamed sweetly up John’s back, one settling in the space between his shoulder blades, the other wrapping around his torso and clutching his side.

“Jesus. It feels like ages.” John planted a final kiss on Sherlock’s bottom lip, then moved across to his jaw, his cheek, the soft skin below his ear.

“It has been – oh.” Sherlock’s reply was cut off by John nipping at the hinge of his jaw, sweet pain fuelling his desire and making him grip John even tighter.

“The flat’s so quiet when you’re not there.” John was nosing back up now, whispering in Sherlock’s ear. “I kept expecting you to be there when I woke up, or when I came home, and you never were. It felt so wrong – it felt like I was missing part of myself.”

“Oh, John…”

“And then today, seeing you at the station…” John pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, his voice suddenly thick. “I wanted so badly just to hold you, and I couldn’t, I had to pretend…” He sucked in a long shuddering breath. “And you were so brilliant, with the plan and at the break-in, and I wanted to tell you, to show you, but there were all those people around… God, Sherlock, it was agony.”

Sherlock tugged John’s face toward his and kissed him passionately. John melted against him, breathing desperately between his lips, one hand cradling Sherlock’s face, the other arm curling around Sherlock’s shoulders and holding him close as if he would somehow slip away.

“It’s over now, John. We’re safe.” Sherlock slid his hand up to stroke through John’s hair, and John leaned back into the touch, his eyes closed as if savouring it. “We’re here, we’re alone.” Sherlock quirked his mouth up in a shy smile. “Show me now.”

John’s sigh of wondering relief echoed through Sherlock’s entire body. “Oh God, yes.”

He dove back in, kissing Sherlock hard and fast, and then started down his body, kissing the cleft of his chin, the mole on his neck, that place in the hollow of his collarbone that made Sherlock’s entire body shiver.

He nosed his way down the sparse hair on his chest, sending electricity shooting through the neurons at the sensitive follicles, and then kissed at one of his nipples, lapping gently, coaxing it into a hard nub. Sherlock writhed and gasped above him, his arm coming up to cradle John’s head against his chest, urging him onward with his touch.

John understood, grinned wickedly for just a moment, and then latched his entire mouth onto the peaked, pink flesh and sucked. Sherlock cried out loudly, clenching his teeth at the sharp spike of pleasure that went directly to his cock.

John pulled off for a moment and looked up at him with concern in his eyes. “Are these walls soundproof?”

The question took a moment to register in Sherlock’s mind, and then his expression sobered. “No, not entirely.” Shit. “I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”

But John shook his head abruptly and smoothed his hands up Sherlock’s sides. “No, sod that. Let me hear you.” He bent low and kissed Sherlock’s chest with closed lips, right over his heart. “Please, I want to hear you.”

“Alright.” Sherlock’s pulse kicked up a notch, but he resolved to keep his vocalizations lower, if he could.

John continued his path down Sherlock’s chest, kissing down his sternum, across his stomach, laving over his navel and making Sherlock arch up into the contact. He moved over to nuzzle over his iliac crest, his fingers fumbling with Sherlock’s belt when his path was obstructed by clothes.

“Lift up for me, sweetheart,” he murmured against his skin, and Sherlock obeyed, reaching down to help John with his belt and pull it free. John kissed at his navel once more, then in one fluid motion shucked down Sherlock’s trousers and tossed them aside.

“Gorgeous,” John whispered reverently, and Sherlock groaned long and low in the back of his throat. John’s hands came to rest at Sherlock’s hips, his thumbs pushing down the waistband of his pants to continue nuzzling his iliac crest. He planted a kiss at the base of it, and then moved downward, kissing at the inside of his thighs, nuzzling at the crease of his hip, paying attention to everywhere but his cock, prominently tenting the soft cotton of his pants.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was little more than a bitten-off gasp.

“Yes, beautiful?” Sherlock could practically feel John’s wicked grin against his thigh.

“John, please…”

John hummed softly at the crease of his groin, raising his head inches from Sherlock’s cock and ghosting his breath over it. Sherlock could feel the heat of it through the material, and his hands clutched desperately at John’s shoulders. “John, John…”

“Shh.” John rubbed his thumbs soothingly over Sherlock’s hips, and bent to kiss the head of his cock through his pants. “I know, love, I know. I’m gonna make you feel amazing, I promise.”

Sherlock groaned low and wanton, and John smiled again, then lowered his head to nuzzle at the base of Sherlock’s cock through the fabric. He planted a kiss there, and then dragged his cheek up the side of it, his eyes falling closed as he did so, and it was so lewdly beautiful that Sherlock had to tilt his head back and steady himself with a gulping breath.

John moved back to kiss the head again, but this time with an open mouth, laving and lapping all around it, leaving a dark wet spot on the soft fabric. Sherlock was letting out soft moans in quick succession, struggling against John’s grip on his hips, seeking out the heat of John’s mouth, needing direct contact his skin, just needing more.

Sensing this, John stopped teasing, and gave his cock a final soft kiss through his pants. He dipped his fingers into the waistband and yanked them down, tossed them aside. Sherlock’s cock sprang free, already flushed and leaking, and finally oh God finally John swallowed him down, dragging his tongue along the underside, and that gorgeous gorgeous wet heat of his mouth made Sherlock throw his head back and let out a sharp bitten-off cry.

Encouraged, John hollowed his cheeks and began to suck, taking as much of Sherlock as he could. Sherlock strained against John’s grip, but John held him firmly down, bobbing his head slowly up and down, setting a maddeningly slow pace that had Sherlock keening and moaning and gripping John’s head tightly, urging him to give him still more. John sped up slightly, but held back just enough, just enough to keep Sherlock from going over the edge.

It was beautifully maddening, and Sherlock felt heat start to pool at the base of his spine, but still John carried on slowly, his eyes half closed, his mouth stretched wide over Sherlock’s girth, the very picture of debauchery as he pulled Sherlock almost to the brink and then back again.

Sherlock couldn’t take it; he needed more, he needed all of John, and now before the sight of those wanton blue eyes drove him out of his mind. He tugged at the base of John’s neck and whispered hoarsely, “John, John!”

John pulled off with a soft pop, hands smoothing tenderly up Sherlock’s hips, and looked up to meet his eyes, his gaze questioning and calming, silently saying I’m here, I’ve got you, what do you need?

“Please,” Sherlock gasped out raggedly. He swiped a thumb over John’s beautiful jaw, wiping away a spot of saliva from his activities. “Please, John, I need you, I need you so badly, please…”

John smiled and crawled up Sherlock’s body to kiss the desperation from his lips. Sherlock tasted himself on John’s tongue, warm and salty, and the sensation pulled a deep rumbling groan from his throat. He reached down to pull John’s body flush with his own, pressing their chests together and aligning their cocks through the material of John’s trousers, eliciting a gasp from them both.

“Of course, love, of course, anything you want, I’ll give it to you.” John’s voice was more heat than sound, breath sweeping across Sherlock’s lips, a hand coming to rest in his curls, stroking gently.

“I want you,” Sherlock whispered pathetically, his mind a whirl, unable to articulate anything further.

“Yes, God, yes.” John kissed him again, tongue plunging between Sherlock’s lips, reassuring and taking his own comfort in every sweet swipe of his tongue against Sherlock’s own.

Sherlock reached down, one hand cupping John’s arse greedily, the other deftly undoing his belt, pulling open the button and zip on his trousers. John pulled back from the kiss suddenly; worry was seeping into the creases around his eyes. “Wait, hang on, do you have-?”

Sherlock nodded swiftly. “Suitcase. In the closet.”

John chuckled softly, relief crowding away the momentary panic, and he leaned in to kiss Sherlock again, once, chastely. “You filthy man.”

“You weren’t here, I needed it,” Sherlock retorted, half defensive, half amused. He smoothed his hand through John’s hair and pulled him in for another kiss, stifling John’s soft laughter with his lips.

John nipped at Sherlock’s bottom lip playfully, then pushed himself up off of Sherlock and swung himself off the bed, divesting himself of trousers and pants as he went. Sherlock sat up a little, admiring the view of John’s plush arse as he crossed the room and pulled open the closet door, loving the way it curved as he crouched down to rifle through Sherlock’s suitcase.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” John smirked as he rummaged, not needing to look at Sherlock to know exactly where his attention was focused.

“It’s also rude to keep your partner waiting when you look like that.” Sherlock was trying for nonchalance, but didn’t quite manage to keep the plaintive note out of his voice as his eyes trailed hungrily down John’s strong, muscular body, laid completely bare before him like a feast for his gaze.

John’s smirk burst open into laughter – the sound sweeter than a symphony to Sherlock’s ears – and he straightened up, bottle of lube in hand. His eyes twinkled with warmth and affection, and they swept the length of Sherlock’s naked body, taking in everything with a joyous fondness in his expression that made a pink flush creep into Sherlock’s cheeks.

“You’re one to talk, you bloody gorgeous creature.” He crossed back over to the bed, his voice soft but with a hard edge of desire lurking just beneath the surface. He crawled back up over Sherlock and straddled his legs, his free hand reaching down to stroke over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all day?”

“I doubt it.” Sherlock smirked back; he settled his hands on John’s hips, softly tracing patterns with the pads of his fingers.

“No?” John quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward to rest on his elbows, his lips hovering just centimeters from Sherlock’s. “You mean you don’t know how much I wanted to snog you senseless in that cab earlier? Or back at Orlova’s flat, mobsters be damned?” John’s eyes had fallen half closed, his breath ghosting over Sherlock’s lips but still not making contact, that endearing half-smirk still pulling at his plump lips. “You don’t know that when I saw you again at the station, looking like the most beautiful sight for sore eyes, that I wanted to push you up onto that table and have my way with you right then and there?”

Sherlock moaned, desperate, and tugged John down to kiss him deeply, snaking his arms around his back and pulling him down so that they were chest to chest, the warmth of John’s entire body settling on him like a comforting weight, bared to him at last, nothing left to separate even one inch of Sherlock Holmes from the man he loved.

John sank into Sherlock’s embrace and curled his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek as he kissed him so, so sweetly, and the gesture was so full of tenderness that Sherlock wanted to cry out. Instead he broke off with a gasp, gripping John to him as tightly as he could, and whispered a desperate “John, please” against his mouth with a voice so dripping with longing it was scarcely recognizable as his own.

John bent to press another chaste, reassuring kiss to Sherlock’s lips, and then picked up the bottle of lube from where it had fallen onto the sheets. He poured out a generous amount onto his palm and slicked his fingers, then repositioned himself between Sherlock’s legs, continuing to cradle Sherlock’s face with his other hand and smooth gently along his jaw.

“Ready?” John held Sherlock’s gaze firmly within his own, holding his own desire at bay with no small amount of effort until Sherlock gave his assent. Sherlock nodded, breathlessly, and John smiled sweetly and bent down to press a kiss to his top lip.

“Try to relax for me.” John lightly circled Sherlock’s entrance with a slicked finger. Sherlock sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and tried to acquiesce, but even those lightest of touches sent bolts of electricity streaking up his spine.

John stroked soothingly down the side of Sherlock’s face with one hand, just as he pushed into him with the other, just the tip of his finger, letting Sherlock adjust to the sensation before going any further. Sherlock felt all the air leave his lungs in one quick blast, his hands clutching tightly at John’s back, drawing him close, anchoring himself.

“Breathe, sweetheart. That’s it.” John kissed Sherlock lightly again as Sherlock inhaled shakily. Slowly, so slowly, John worked his finger in up to the knuckle, coaxing and encouraging Sherlock all the time. Low spikes of pleasure shot through Sherlock at the feeling, warmth beginning to pool in his belly as his breath came back to him.

“More,” he whispered softly, almost brokenly. John nodded once, kissed Sherlock’s cheek, the corner of his jaw, as he added a second finger. Sherlock cried out, low in his throat, his back arching off the bed, his hips moving ever so slightly in an involuntary effort to bring John in deeper.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this.” John had pulled back to look at him more fully, his eyes so bright and tender it was unfathomable. He pushed his hand back to thread through Sherlock’s curls and draw their lips together, meeting in the absolute lightest of brushes. “So impossibly beautiful.”

“John, please,” Sherlock moaned, his breath coming faster every second. His eyes had fallen closed, his whole body alight with feeling, his entire world narrowing to the feeling of John, above him and around him and inside him, and still he needed more.

Sherlock felt John’s soft, quiet smile against his lips, felt John’s eyelashes flutter whisper-light against his cheek. A jolt of pleasure shot up Sherlock’s spine as John’s third finger breached him, slowly, steadily, and Sherlock couldn’t help but cry out, loudly, and John dove forward to capture his lips, muffling the sound with a kiss.

Sherlock plunged his tongue greedily into John’s mouth, his hands sliding up John’s back to frame his face, holding him there to deepen the kiss into something desperate, something solid. John responded enthusiastically, licking his way into Sherlock’s mouth with visceral need. He crooked his fingers inside Sherlock, brushing up against that perfect spot, that bundle of nerves that sent Sherlock’s mind spinning out of control, that pulled a sharp cry from his throat and caused him to throw his head back, to grit his teeth against that flash of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, soothing him, bringing him back down to earth. “Okay?”

Sherlock managed to nod, to blink open his eyes to see John looking down at him with pursed lips, concern worrying the crease of his forehead. Sherlock brushed a thumb over his eyebrow, wanting to smooth it away. “Yes,” he choked out. His heart was hammering; Sherlock was sure John could feel it against his chest. “Please, John, I need you, I need you now.”

John’s rapid breath hitched, and he swallowed, nodding quickly. He stroked once more over Sherlock’s prostate – Sherlock gasped out a silent cry – and drew his fingers out, grabbing the lube again and slicking himself liberally. He positioned himself deliberately between Sherlock’s legs, trailing one hand gently up and down Sherlock’s side, using the other to line himself up at Sherlock’s entrance.

John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, questioning, and Sherlock nodded once, his breath shuddering in anticipation. John leaned forward, hovering over him with shaking arms, and pushed inward with one slow but continuous movement. They cried out in unison, Sherlock’s hands clawing at John’s neck, and John pushed forward until he was seated up to the hilt, wrapping an arm underneath Sherlock’s shoulders and swallowing his cries with a deep, passionate kiss.

Sherlock clung to him desperately, wrapping both his arms around his shoulders and holding him in place, kissing him with deep shuddering gasps. John’s lips were gentle and slow, his mouth opening warmly and readily over Sherlock’s, balancing out Sherlock’s franticness with quiet reassurance. The hand that had been stroking through his curls came forward to thumb tenderly at Sherlock’s cheek, and John started with a sharp breath when he found tears there. He leaned forward and kissed them away, first one side, then the other, and then gathered Sherlock close and pressed a hard, closed-mouth kiss to the base of his hair.

“I’m here, Sherlock, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

A strangled sob escaped Sherlock’s throat, despite his best efforts to swallow it down. He pressed his face into John’s neck and inhaled shakily, trying to draw John’s scent and warmth into his lungs to calm himself down. He needed to get himself under control; there was no need for this, John was here, he was right here, right where he was supposed to be, here with Sherlock and doting on Sherlock and loving Sherlock and oh God, he’d missed him, he’d missed him, he’d missed him so much.

Even after all they’d been through today, Sherlock hadn’t realized until now just how incomplete he’d felt without John by his side. Hadn’t realized that he had been walking the streets of Moscow with only half of his heart, the other half sitting in a cozy armchair in Baker Street, sipping tea in a silent flat and missing him too. Sherlock was suddenly so overcome by how essential John was to his entire being, to everything he was, and only now that they were together properly again did Sherlock feel whole, and home, and perfectly, wonderfully happy. The realization lodged itself painfully in Sherlock’s throat, stifling his breath, engulfing him.

With some effort, Sherlock swallowed down his building sobs and forced his breath to level out. Excess tears leaked from under his eyelids, and he pressed a hard kiss to John’s neck with trembling lips.

“I love you.” The words ghosted over John’s skin like heavy London air.

John trembled faintly with his own sharp intake of breath, then drew back from the tight embrace to claim Sherlock’s lips once more.

“I love you.” John’s lips were trembling too, his eyes shining brightly as they held all of Sherlock under their spell. “I love you so much, Sherlock.”

They kissed deeply for a few moments more, desperately but unhurriedly. Savoring the feeling of the other so close, so warm and pliant in each other’s arms. Savoring the tightness of their throats and the fullness of their hearts, the feeling of coming back to the place where they were always meant to be, as easily and naturally as breathing. Of loving each other so completely that they simply didn’t know how else to be.

That fact – that simple, undeniable, tangible truth of them together, of their love – comforted Sherlock, grounded him, slowly brought him back to himself, making him aware of their bodies, of the deep simmering heat pooled in his abdomen, of his aching cock lying pressed between them, of the line of John’s body pulled taut with careful restraint. All at once that need overpowered him again, flaring up in his chest like a match struck on tinder; John felt it too, Sherlock knew he did, and suddenly it was apparent that they had waited long enough. Sherlock slid a hand slowly downward, stroking sweetly down John’s back until it reached his arse and gripped shamelessly. John’s hips kicked forward, apparently involuntarily, sending a hot flame of pleasure licking its way up Sherlock’s spine and causing them both to break the kiss with a gasp.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was dark and husky with desire.

“Yes, yes, now John, please,” Sherlock whimpered in reply, his unsteady hand gripping John’s arse more firmly, urging him to move.

John moaned, a long guttural sound vibrating deep within his chest, and dipped his head to kiss messily at Sherlock’s lips. He rocked his hips forward, slowly, and the sensation pushed a sharp, breathy cry up through Sherlock’s lungs. John tightened his grip around Sherlock’s shoulders as he sped up slightly, setting a slow but earnest pace, savoring the quakes of pleasure coursing through each of them together.

Sherlock writhed and moaned underneath him, sweet fire pooling at the base of his spine, and John’s thrusts were gentle and building but still he needed more, more, and that ever-present continuing want somehow fuelled his own pleasure and made the experience even more intense, amplified his desire in immeasurable ways.

Steadying himself, and keeping his grip on John’s arse, Sherlock lifted his legs to wrap around John’s thighs and rolled his own hips down onto John’s cock, the angle deepening and suddenly John was hitting Sherlock’s prostate with every deliberate thrust, sending white hot sparks up Sherlock’s every nerve, down to the tips of his fingers, to the top of his scalp, tearing John’s name from his lips in a sound that was half shout, half sob.

“Oh, God, sweetheart,” John rasped out, his face buried in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, his lips sticking to Sherlock’s damp skin. He held himself there, his mouth moving hot and wet, more of a sloppy lapping of lips and tongue than an actual kiss, but to Sherlock the feeling was as sweet, as passionate as any kiss could be, because John had simultaneously picked up his pace to thrust long and fast, rocking deeply, more deeply within Sherlock than ever and finally, oh, finally it was what Sherlock needed; sweet and luxurious, deep and powerful, John’s cock sending hot spikes of pleasure through every cell in his body with every hard brush over that sensitive bundle of nerves.

“John, John, oh, oh God, oh John…” Sherlock’s harsh voice chanted, over and over, the heat in his abdomen ready to flare up, John’s sweet movements building his pleasure up higher and higher and oh, he was close, he was so close…

“Yeah, yeah, Sherlock…” John’s voice rasped out, heavy against Sherlock’s neck, his hips rocking steadily, tension building along his spine under Sherlock’s touch. “Come for me, my love, my Sherlock, come for me now.”

And with another messy kiss John reached in between their bodies and took Sherlock in hand, stroking long and luxuriously over his aching cock, giving him just enough sweet pressure in combination with each hard, perfect thrust and that was it, that was it. Sherlock’s back arched off the mattress into John’s chest, John’s name bursting from his lungs as he crashed over the edge; flames, white and searing, coursed through his extremities and he was coming, hard and fast over John’s hand, his hips still pushing back to meet John’s thrusts as he rode out his sweet pleasure.

John’s teeth were clenched tight, his forehead pressed into Sherlock’s collarbone, and Sherlock, head whirling in endorphins, came back to himself just enough to feel John’s arm tighten around his torso, his hips pump sharply once, twice, and then he was coming too, spilling hotly and perfectly into Sherlock, stifling his broken cries into Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s name on his lips with each ragged breath.

Sherlock gasped and sputtered, struggling to catch his breath as he sank deeply back onto the mattress, John collapsing weightily onto his chest, spent and trembling with aftershocks. Sherlock’s arms automatically came up to encircle John’s back, smoothing down his shoulders with quaking hands, as his heart pounded hard against his chest, feeling John’s own heavy heartbeat just as strongly, almost in unison with his own. With some effort, he relaxed himself enough to open his eyes, stinging slightly, though whether from sweat or tears Sherlock was not in a position to say with any certainty. His body was leaden and heavy, warm with John’s weight on top of him, but he lifted his head just enough to press a kiss to John’s sweaty hair and stroked softly with two fingers at the nape of his neck, John’s breath still coming hot and fast against Sherlock’s chest as he struggled to get himself under control.

With shaky hands Sherlock rubbed slow, soothing patterns across John’s back, smoothed up his neck and threaded fingers through damp strands of silver-blond hair, until John’s breath evened out and his pulse slowed to a steady, firm beat. He lifted his head sluggishly, eyes still closed, seeking Sherlock’s lips without coordination, and Sherlock leaned forward to offer them. John’s mouth was warm and wet, his lips swollen red from kissing, and Sherlock pushed his tongue gently past them to stroke broadly along John’s own, licking softly and slowly into that inviting space, and John responded in kind, angling his face to kiss Sherlock deeply, if a bit clumsily, one strong hand coming up to sweep gently along Sherlock’s jaw.

They kissed slowly, languidly, neither of them knew how long, blissed out and comfortable, their heads perfectly clear, with nowhere to go nor anything better to do. Sherlock would have been content to stay like this all night, kissing a warm, sated John until the sun arose over the glass-panelled buildings outside. But their movements were growing slower, their kisses longer and lazier, and Sherlock could feel fatigue creeping into the slump of John’s shoulders just as surely as he felt his own eyelids grow heavy. Still, he held John close for as long as he could, touching as much of him as he could reach, letting the moment stretch on, sweet and perfect, for as long as it would last.

Eventually, John pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Sherlock’s bottom lip, and gathered himself up off of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock gripped him by the arm in a brief flash of panic, unwilling to let him leave even for a second, but John met the concern in Sherlock’s eyes with bright tenderness, stroking his thumb sweetly down his cheekbone and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead; a silent but unmistakable promise to come right back. Sherlock, assured but still reluctant, relaxed his hold, and John pushed himself off the bed, stumbling in the dim light toward the bathroom for a wet flannel. Sherlock leaned back against the pillows and watched him, a small satisfied smile playing at his lips, his heart full.

The tap ran briefly and John returned in a moment, as promised, with a washed face and a hand towel, with which he gently wiped down Sherlock’s thighs and stomach, sweeping the damp fabric lightly across his sensitive skin, being especially careful around the base of his soft cock. He tossed the towel in the direction of the bathroom and crawled back into the bed, gathering a grateful Sherlock into his arms and pulling him to rest against his chest, their legs tangling together and John’s lips brushing sweetly against Sherlock’s brow.

“I love you,” he whispered into Sherlock’s wild curls, his voice low and full of feeling.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock breathed back, his lips pressing softly against John’s chest, an arm wrapping securely around his back.

“I’m never letting you leave me again.” John’s voice was a low murmur, trickling through the scant space between them as he stroked a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “Wherever you are, no matter where you go, I’m going to be there with you, Mycroft and all the world be damned.”

Despite the tender swelling in his heart at John’s earnest promise, Sherlock couldn’t suppress the smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Good,” he said warmly against John’s chest. “Maybe we can do this again in Kiev, or Bucharest. I think Mycroft has a few leads there.”

John burst into giggles above him, muffling his laughter against Sherlock’s hair. “Oh God, don’t give him any ideas.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied through his own broad grin. “I think it could be rather fun. You and I racing across the roofs of cathedrals, chasing crime lords through cobblestoned streets, public markets…”

“Really?” John pulled back to look at Sherlock, the corners of his eyes crinkling with laughter and no small amount of affection, radiating out of him as if he were simply unable to contain it. “You wouldn’t mind being away from home?”

Sherlock’s grin faded into a soft, heartfelt smile as he looked up at John – his John, his amazing, beautiful, kind-hearted John, who would do anything for Sherlock, follow him everywhere he went, be there by his side however and whenever he needed him – and Sherlock was so overwhelmed by the undeniable devotion, the love in his expression, that he felt his heart swell with the truth of it. He raised a gentle hand to John’s face, brushing a thumb just under those perfect blue eyes, those eyes that held him steady and sure in an unfamiliar place, those eyes that drew him back whenever he was lost or lonely, and Sherlock shook his head.

“You’re my home, John.”

John sighed softly, his expression filled with such tenderness it was unbearable, and he drew Sherlock up toward him to kiss him once more, slow and deep and warm.

Sherlock nestled back into John’s chest, and John reached down and drew the blankets up over them. Sherlock sighed contentedly, John’s arms holding him close, his breath warm and comforting against Sherlock’s cheek. They drifted off to sleep, feeling whole and peaceful, the city lights shining radiantly up through the darkness outside the window.